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Verses 



A Sketch 



6^ 



JOHN ACTON 



Philadelphia 

^ILLSTEIN & SON 

1890 







Copyright, 

1890, 

By the Author. 



TO HIS PRECEPTRESS, 

MARY E. HELMBOLD, 

of Philadelphia, 

WHO FIRST TAUGHT HIM TO VALUE THE BEAUTY 
OF THE IDEAL, 

This Book is Respectfully Dedicated 

BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



CONTENTS, 



PAGE 

Anent Apollo, ...... 7 

A Northern April's Stratagem, ... 8 

To Crcesus at Christmas, .... 9 

To Lagging Fancy, ..... 10 

A Child Against Shakespeare, . .11 

A Child's Flight, ..... 12 

In Quest of Roseland, ..... 13 

A King and a Child, .... 14 

Seeking the Best King's Smile, ... 15 

To A Pansy, ...... 16 

To A Maple, ...... 17 

June, ....... 18 

At the Gate OF June, ..... 19 

In the Grass, ...... 20 

Baby's First Pearl, . . . .21 

Beauty's Bitter Cup, ..... 22 

Grief as Guest, ..... 23 



PAGE 

Grief's Empty Hands, ..... 24 

Beyond Moth and Rust, .... 25 

The Irish Snake, ...... 26 

The Black Casket, ..... 27 

Our Rain and Our Lady, . .28 

The Sacred Heart, ..... 29 

Dives, ....... 30 

"Cold AS Charity," ..... 31 

In What Part of the Sky ? . . 32 

A Tree's Good-Friday Wish, ... 33 

To A Lily of the Valley at Easter, . 34 

To AN Eminent Botanist, .... 35 

To A Statue of Jesus, ..... 36 

MUSICAL SUBJECTS. 
The Perfect Quatrain, .39 

The Pianiste, ..... 40 

Chopin's Music, ... 41 

When Zithers Sound, .... 42 

TRANSLATION. 

The Angels, ...... 45 

A SKETCH. 

Bergheim's Bird, ...... 49 



ANENT APOLLO. 



IF Apollo ne'er gainsaid, 
My lapsed lute, instead of lead, 
Mayhap were singing fire ; 
For if the god were trier 
And tuner of the strings, 
One's song-set imaginings 
(Though light as zither-tinkling, 
Or dew that goes rose-sprinkling, 
Yet bearing oft warm weight of tears) 
Might seem worth while to one's own ears, 
At least. . . . What prayer, what cry, 
Will win the Song God in his sky? 



A NORTHERN APRILS STRATAGEM. 



"T 70UNG April, slave to Winter-Naaman, 
Y Spoke to him low : *' If healed by Earth's strong 
streams, 
Thy reign of life would last beyond thy dreams 
Of life." By faint hope spurred, the leper ran, 
With all his snows, from stream to stream. From van 
With gold-hued curve the sun shot withering beams 
Upon the seeking chief; and throbbing gleams 
Of wakened grass stole after him, to span 
And whip his heart to death. Keen April, slave, 
Laughing, sowed whitest seeds of bubbling rain. 
That June winds and June dews might roses own 
For loveliest toys and nests. And then she gave 
A wide search for her master. But in vain : 

The streams had drowned him, and Spring's sweet was 
known. 



TO CRCESUS AT CHRISTMAS. 



Mr. , the well-known patron of art, has a Raphael in 

his collection for which, it is said, he once refused three hun- 
dred thousand dollars. — Exchange. 

YOUR Raphaels are very fair, I know ; 
But — painted figures need no bread. The snow, 
I say, can never harm their perfect feet 
(Your gallery being well roofed). . . . See ! up the street 
Comes that pale beggar again. A piteous sight 
His shoeless, bleeding feet this bitter night ! 

Your marble Venus would laugh at a shawl 

(If she could laugh) ; yet shivering, within call, 

A gray-haired widow goes, who would not smile 

(Except in thanks) at such good gift. And while 

Antinous' statue looks cold, chilled to death 

Is yonder young tramp, with his cough-crossed breath. 

Your Fra Angelicos show Beauty's best 
By smiles of sweet child-angels. But the rest — 
The children not in pictures, and that die 
When fire and food are farther than their cry ; 
That go from some stark room to a tiny grave — 
Finding Death's hand, but never a man's to save ! 



TO LAGGING FANCY 



POETS call. . . . What charms your wings 
In the waste ? Speed thence ! 
Who may dream, or whose heart sings, 
If your providence 
Of pure spirit you withhold, 
The while you lie death-still and are death-cold ? 

Note Night's sky ; were't not less fair 

If a light should fail ? 
Poet-souls are stars ; so, share 

Their swift shine ; prevail, 
Lest death pierce to F*oesy, 
And e'en one singing star fall from her sky. 



A CHILD AGAINST SHAKESPEARE. 



^* r I ^HIS book says Shakespeare is dead." . . . Oh, yes ; 
I But that grieves the poets, my child, not me ; 

My grief were all in my loneliness 
If 'twere you in the grave, not he. You see, 

He could not be eight years old, like you. 
And so his bayed brows would ne'er be to kiss, 

As yours are— sweeter uncrowned. "Is that true?" 
Yes, you more than Shakespeare, believe, I'd miss. 



A CHILD'S FLIGHT. 



N 



*^ X T OW I shall see the brothers of birds," 
A pale child-dreamer said. 
Her breath for earth waned in her words 
And then she smiled and fled. 



Is she death-dust ? Never ! I know 
She smiles again, and — this : 

Her " brothers of birds" now round her go- 
Winged angels, where Heav'n is. 



IN GUEST OF ROSE LAND. 



I 



^^ T WISH I could find Roseland," 
A little, wan child said, 
" Where sweet, deep roses, thornless 
As Heav'n, grow white and red." 



If yon wide sky hide Roseland, 
And that to Heav'n be near, 

Soon was the child's wish answered- 
Sweet flower upon her bier ! 



13 



A KING AND A CHILD. 



"My dreams show 
That roses, thornless as a star, 

And white as Winter's thornless snow. 
Sweeten Thy sky-paths, O my King !— 

How many hours to reach Thy sky ?" 
A child with wan and kissed face said ; 

By Death, Christ sent swift love-reply, 
And in that hour the child was dead. 

Then, I know, 
In the fair land she deemed too far, 

This child found the fair King ; also, 
Thornless rose and swift welcoming. 



14 



SEEKING THE BEST KINGS SMILE 



Ah ! when 
The king in his wooing did much prevail, 
O'er the princess' love that leapt 
Doubt like a swift dagger swept. 

So, waiving the man and his lips a while, 
" Then thou art the fairest king of all ?" 
This princess asked whom Love had won. 

Death answered the asker. . . . 'Neath a pall 
They placed her. Then she passed the sun, 
And her best love woke at the best King's smile. 

Ah ! then, 
'Neath the dusk-dimmed sweep of a willow's veil. 
How the princess' lover wept 
Where his dreamless idol slept ! 



TO A PANSY. 



Sweet pansy, 
Is this what thy petals are — 
Twilights anchored round a star, 
Or a small sun faded into blue 
Up to a gold-corded space for dew ? 
Thy beauty may be from either won, 
But I leave that to eve and the sun. 

Sweet pansy, 
Rich, rounded amethyst from some young angel's brow 
Or loosed from the velvet of his wings' looped snow — 
This thou art ; 
And garden-text of God, 
The text " Love," not " My rod "— 
This thou art. 
Sweet pansy. 



i6 



TO A MAPLE. 



r>UCH exquisite proportion dost thou show — 



^ 



Trunk, bough and leaf as fine as orderly 
That I have fancied thou didst, long ago. 
Turn from some perfect sonnet to a tree. 



M 



JUNE. 



ARGUERITE April and Ophelia May- 
April had jewels made of flawless rain, 
May laughed 'mid pansy- wreaths to hide death- 
pain — 
Are dead, and Earth mourns not in black or gray. 
June-Juliet watches her sun-knight all day 
From her green-pillared arbor in the grass, 
And birds and winds fly downward as they pass, 
To teach sad hearts a song, strayed ships their way. 
The corded dust of the sweet four-o'-clocks 
In curdled leaves makes richest perfume-gifts 
For dew and night, for which the gardens yearn ; 
The satin-fingered grass winds round the phlox. 
The jasmine sheaves thin honey in pale drifts. 
And rosebuds all to loveliest love-gifts turn. 



i8 



AT THE GATE OE JUNE. 



These days a spotless Hand 
Turns garnered sky-gold to myriad drops 
Of honey, to sweeten the sweet rose-tops 

At the gate of June. 

These nights, o'er all the land, 
Pulse dew and brooks, and fairy queens meet, 
Holding pink-clover wands, pansy-chains sweet, 

At the gate of June. 



19 



IN THE GRASS. 



I 



N the green grasp of the grass 
How many fair things there are ! 

The valley-Hly, dawn-dew, 
The daisy's summer-born star ; 



Buttercups, mint, star of moss. 
Soft, swaying ferns, meek as slaves. 

And— bitter tears through a thousand years !- 
The countless sweet baby-graves ! 



BAB Y'S FIRST PEARL. 



ASLEEP, each little tot is fain 
To find in Dreamland's gentle seas 
A pearl— white gem of useful gain, 
That babies seek, grown folk to please. 

Wouldst see this pearl ? Then wait, and hear, 
Some morn, a smiling mother say : 

Why, Baby has a tooth— the dear ! 
It must have come since yesterday !" 



BEAUTY'S BITTER CUP, 



* ^ T T TOULD I were that sweet jacqueminot out there !' 
\\ Beauty glanced at her garden with a sigh — 

"Since no maid's cheeks can show a red as fair. 
And roses never dream that they must die." 

" Would I were some scarred leper in a grave, 
Having a soul," sighed the fair jacqueminot, 

" Rather than my rose-self, that may not waive 
The doom of dust to which the soulless go !" 



GRIEF AS GUEST. 



BROOKWAYS were warm, the wildbird's note 
Pierced like swift pain the swaying rose, 
When to me, in a spirit boat, 
A pale child came. My house he chose 

As dwelling-place, and_then my heart. 

I named him Love. I was not wise ; 
For, when he grew of me a part. 

It was as Grief, the Prince of Sighs. 



23 



GRIEF'S EMPTY HANDS. 



("^ RIEF said to Hope : " I have a favor, friend, 
■y To ask. It is— that thou wilt seek, with me. 
Space for a garden which may equally 
Be ours to own, to beautify and tend. 
And let who will flow'rs for the garden send, 
In sign of friendliness ; so shall I see 
If it be true that mankind hath for me 
No gift of love, nor aught but tears to spend." 
When Grief and Hope had walled their garden-ground. 
They made it known to men, and soon there came 
Rich gifts of flow'rs unmarred by worm or thorn ; 
But 'mid the blooms not one for Grief was found : 
All were sweet Hope's. Then Grief, in very shame, 
Fled far from Hope, the world's dispraise to mourn. 



24 



BEYOND MOTH AND RUST. 



A MOTH veered o'er a battlefield— 
'Tvvas hours ere dawn-light — 
Until it reached the rusting shield 
On a pearl-pale young knight. 

The knight lay there, yet he, I know, 

Was in another land, 
Where moth and rust will never grow, 

And war and death are banned. 



25 



THE IRISH SNAKE. 



NO vipers coil in Ireland's grass, you say. 
As true that is as if by Truth .'twere said. 
And yet, believe, on her sweet soil doth stay 
A deadlier snake than ever fanged and fled. 

Its semblance man's ; its heart a bitter stone, 
Cold in the bitter, cold blood of its breast ; 

Traitor its name. . . . O Christ ! hear Ireland's moan, 
And crush this snake that breeds to crush her best ! 



26 



777^ BLACK CASKET. 



O" 



*^ /^^NLY a negro." . . . Friend, your thorns of words 
Come never from the sweet rose-tree 
Of Charity, 
Nor any black pierce to undo, 
But back to you. 

" Only a negro." . . . Was't your Maker's thought 
To have the black (whom He formed too) 
Wake hate in you, 
His brother ? Never ! . . . Ah, your sneers 
Were best shame's tears ! 

"Only a negro." . . . Know, your " only " wounds 
The great, all-loving Christ, whose Tree 
Of Calvary 
He bore to bring His Father back 
Both white and black. 

" Only a negro." . . . Nay, not so, good friend. 
But the fit casket by God planned 
(Long ere you banned) 
To hold that pearl of pearls, a soul, 
With heav'n for goal. 

27 



OUR RAIN AND OUR LADY. 



NONE but sweet raindrops e'er leave our King's sky, 
Though it Hfts bitter waters from. earth's serving seas 
And to earth's lightest thirsting our King's swift reply 
Is the deep dew of rain to His rivers and trees. 

None but sweet answers e'er leave our King's sky, 
Though ofttimes grief-bitter our words as we pray ; 

And, our Queen but once pleading, her Son's swift reply 
Is the deep dew of peace for our hearts and our way. 



28 



THE SACRED HEART. 



^^T^IS the Rose of North and South, 
I Of West and East ; 

Rich with Love's drainless dew, no drouth 
Can waste it in the least — 
This greatest Flower of June's great Feast. 

Its fair home is double-named — 
" Heaven " and " the sky ;" 

Its Lily- Mother God-acTclaimed 
To plead for souls that cry 
For help to the great Rose on high. 



29 



DIVES. 



(being a slight hint to his modern imitators.) 



THE pallid palms of Need 
Besought. He took no heed. . . . 
One day his robe of hyacinth-blue 
Grew heavy with Death's awful dew. 

And now may Charity 

Offer no cup, ah me ! 

Though 'neath the robe of hyacinth-blue 

Thirst's fiery sword doth pierce him through. 



30 



COLD AS CHARITY. 



AH me! the bitter thing this beggar wails, 
With palHd, frozen palms beseeching me : 
" Passer, in Christ's name, help ! My body fails 
For food and fire : ' lis cold as Charity /" 

O Sacred Heart ! 'tis such as I have made 

This beggar-byword of sweet Charity, 
By heart self-bound, by crust and coin delayed, 

E'en though Thy dear poor pleaded naming Thee. 



31 



IN WHAT PART OF THE SKY? 



In yon wide sky, 
Where is the lovehest place to rest- 
Its East, its zenith, or its West ? 



Where Christ, the King, 
Sits, Love beloved, on His fair throne, 
'Tis there yon sky is Heaven's own. 



32 



A TREE'S GOOD-FRIDAY WISH. 



MY heart craves more than branch and breeze, 
A budless Tree did say ; 
" The meekest flower, if God should please, 
I'd gladly wear to-day." 

'Twas Friday then. The meekest Flower 

(With Nails for pistil) came. 
The yearning Tree a while to dower : 

Christ is the Flower's name. 



33 



TO A LILY OF THE VALLEY AT EASTER. 



THOU art the lamb of lilies 
(The callas are the sheep), 
And thy fold is the fairy fastness 
Where golden grass gnats leap. 

The sky, too, hath a Lamb, dear, 

Amid its callas tall. 
Though His eyes ope this joyful morning 

Where earthly spring-birds call. 



34 



TO AN EMINENT BOTANIST 



F' 



*^ * J~^LOW'R o' the May ' — some poet's perfect name 
For the most perfect lily-bell.'* 
Your praise, I fear, o'erthrows your flow'r-made fame 
You class not lilies well. 



Know that in yonder sky there blooms to bless 

The only perfect Lily — she 
Whose Son the King hath passed the bitterness 

Of His Good-Friday Tree. 



= The lily of the valley, 

35 



TO A STATUE OF JESUS.' 



OMY Beloved ! whoso looks on Thee, 
Feels the hot, hasting tears o'erflovv his eyes, 
And in his breast heart-piercing stress of sighs, 
That Thy sad, beauteous Face so meek shouldst be ; — 
As if Thou saidst : " My child, canst not love Me ? 
Lilies thou lovest well, and that is wise ; 
But am I not a Flower, too, to prize — 
Thy saving Rose from the Good-Friday Tree ?" 
O Jesu ! Jesu ! do not break my heart 
With Thy mild pleading — Thou who hast the right 
To strike me dead before Thee ! Rather cry : 
Worm, worship Me, lest, after the deep dart 

Driven by Death hath reached thee, thy soul's flight 
Be unto anguish, not to My fair sky." 



At the Church of the Gesu, Philadelphia. 
36 



Musical Subjects. 



THE PERFECT QUATRAIN. 



1 



'^T^HE perfect quatrain — no book yet 
Hath that been entered in : 
'Tis the rhymed strings of Music, set 
Upon the vioHn. 



39 



THE P I AN 1ST E. 

(to o. h.) 



S 



HE seeks the laugh of the keys, 
. Till Joy, with his heart's ease, 
Comes swiftly unto her, 
'Neath her hands to sing, to stir, 
To voice the heart-deep smiles that run 
With Mozart through his music's sun. 



She seeks the cry of the keys. 

Till Grief (as winged Joy flees) 

Comes swiftly unto her, 

'Neath her hands to sob, to stir, 

To voice the soul-deep tears that crowd 

With Chopin through his music's cloud. 



40 



CHOPIN'S MUSIC. 



/^T^HE doves wake with their moaning, and 
I We see but thorns and bitter sand 

In place of bloom and brook ; and Love lies dead, 
We dream — all tears in these tones o'er him shed. 

Then, light as lilies lengthened 'mid light grass 

By touch of June, a sudden laugh will pass 

From out the chords, — as if a child should come 

On a closed coffin, hiding lips too numb 

To kiss their own (oh ! mother-lips, death-cold !), 

And, fancying it a doll-house brought to hold 

Her toys, haste from the death-drear room to seek 

Her little friends and smile and name her prize. 

Grief never once anear her fond surmise : 

'Tis from mamma; and she'll come, too, next week." 

Like this poor babe's, my master, the rare mirth 
That suns thy music is : round it grave-earth. 
World-sorrows and thine own press piteously, 
And yet it sings and sings as if death could not be. 



41 



WHEN ZITHERS SOUND. 



When zithers sound, 
I dream of maples in the sprino^ ; 
Of pearls ; of the blue blossoming 
Of violets ; of creaming beads of corn 
In husks of moss-green silk ; of a gold horn, 
Thin as a lilac-leaf, by fairies blown 
At duskfall ; of white lilies grown 
Where nuns and doves are ; of night-dews 
(Like small gray grapes by starlight) ; of clear clews 
In answering eyes for those who seek love's sign 
In their hearts' idols — all these dreams are mine, 
And more as moth-light : Fancy is unbound 

When zithers sound. 



42 



THE ANGELS. 



(PARAPHRASED FROM THE GERMAN OF LOEWENSTEIN. j 



NOW let me tell thee, tny little one, 
How fair, in fair paths above the sun. 
Are the kind angels, with faces bright 
As earth and heaven in the spring light. 
When gentle pulsing of brook and grass 
Marks the mild May-hours as they pass : 
Their reverent eyes are clear as the air 
And blue as the sky ; in their gold hair 
Dewed, deathless flowers are twined ; and their wings 
Are moonlight dotted with shining rings 
From the stars" edges. . . . Such, little one. 
Are the angels by whom God's work is done. 

Now let me tell thee, my little one. 

How the angels fly. that good be done : 

Softly as snow wavers from cloud-height. 

Or the moon trails her heaven-pure light ; 

Softly as mignonette from Earth grows. 

Or scent of rose-hearts through June air flows ; 

Softly as parting of leaf from tree. 

Or the opening of doors for memory, — 

So softly, lightly, my little one, 

Fly the angels by whom God"s work is done. 



A Sketch 



BERGHEIM'S BIRD. 
(a sketch.) 

There is a certain mazourka of Ciiopin's, half laughter, half 
grief, that makes one think of a just-drawn cup of champagne 
across the bubbling brightness of which white funeral- flowers 
have fallen. 

Judith Bergheim always distinguished herself in playing it. 
She possessed that subtly sympathetic musical apprehension 
without which Chopin is a sealed book to the pianist. Never- 
theless, she has shelved the mazourka permanently, and were 
she ever forced to listen to it again, the bitterness of death 
would, I think, be hers. 

Bergheim never tired of hearing it dance beneath his wife's 
exquisite hands. It was not the best thing for nerves like his— 
sensitive as the E-string of a violin, his friends declared— but 
Bergheim did not think of that. Enough that it brought him 
visions. (For, you know, even an ornithologist, practical with 
nightingale as with parrot, may have visions.) 

Bergheim's book, "Birds of All Lands," promised to bring 
him fame. It had been a labor of love, and would be a pecuni- 
ary success. That were offset, at least, to the daily, distress- 
ing headaches from which he now suff"ered as the result of 
mental overwork. It had been pain for a purpose— a worthy 
one, if he did say so himself. But the strain was over at last, 
and he could take a much-needed rest. No more midnight oil 



to burn above ghost-white foolscap, the lamp's friendly flame 
holding the dark aloof, if not the moth. 

Bergheim began to wonder whether he had seen the last of 
the wan-faced figure that visited him nightly in his study. She 
always came at an hour when he was too weak from weariness 
to stay her and force her to tell who she was. Was her shiver- 
ing caused by the chill of the new-made grave from which she 
might have come ? Perhaps she was not a dead woman : the 
hyacinth blue of her robe was scarcely the color for a shroud. 
He wished that he knew, and that her eyes were less mourn- 
fully accusing. There was no reproach in them for him, though, 
he said to himself: those whom he had wronged were neither 
in the grave nor out of it. He must tell Judith about this 
gliding woman : one's wife could help to clear up the mystery. 
He had been too much engrossed in the home-stretch upon his 
hook to remember that Judith deserved his immediate confi- 
dence. Well, it was not too late yet. 

Hark ! There was that mazourka again ! What a drawer 
to delicious languor it was ! — potent beyond any opium — light- 
est-footed guide to the prismatic paths of Fancy. Dear Judith ! 
She played Chopin well— if he was a partial critic. 

He went over to the music-room, his eyes alight with an un- 
wonted gleam. Judith, busy achieving full- voiced chords, did 
not hear him. He tiptoed up to her, drew her beautiful head 
to his breast and pressed his lips against the rose in the rich 
olive of her cheek. 

Judith, smiling, shortened the piano's story to hear her 
husband's. 

It was not the every-day, yet welcome, one she had expected. 
Bergheim caressed her hair with unsteady hands while telling 
it. Perhaps, he suggested, in conclusion, she could say who 
the figure in hyacinth-blue was. 



Judith listened like one in a dream. For what seemed an 
age — it was in reality but a few moments — she could neither 
speak nor move. Then the reaction came. What horrible 
calamity was this that had overtaken her heart's beloved, her 
king of men? What had he done, that this unspeakable thing 
should be visited upon him? Her heart fluttered like a 
wounded bird, the room swam, grew black, suffocated her. 
She clenched her hands in her anguish. Then, like a flower 
stabbed by a thousand-bladed wind, she bent low over the 
keys, and the tiny altars of song, still warm with the fire of 
Chopin, bore the added heat of sudden tears. Was this to be 
his fate, now that fame waited upon his years of noble effort ? 
That strange look in his eyes ! His burning hands ! "Oh my 
God!" she sobbed, "have mercy! Spare him! Kill me 
rather! Listen! I am nothing — nothing ! A grain of sand, a 
ribbon of weed, is more ! Smite me instead ! God — God ! 
Hear me ! Just once — once, I say ! Oh, help ! mercy ! mercy ! 
King ! King ! He is too young — too young to go mad !" 

Bergheim caught her in his arms as she fell heavily from the 
stool. Mechanically he carried her to her chamber. Here 
was another mystery, like that of that midnight woman Why 
did Judith lie so white, so still ? She looked like marble. Had 
she turned to a statue ? Why did everything puzzle him so ? 
And his head — that pain throbbirg like a pulse — if it would 
cease for just a little while ! 

He went back to his study. Picking up a book, he turned 
the leaves to find something of interest. But he could not 
read : the letters had become black gnats and danced up and 
down the page. It seemed so strange. Then a confused rec- 
ollection of his wife's last words came back to him. " Mad !" 
he murmured. " Oh, no ! " with a quavering laugh, "Chopin 
was not mad, Judith. You must know that. He is the Sorrow 



of music, but he was never mad. No ! no ! never mad ! That 
mazourka of his — you must play it for me to-morrow, sweet- 
heart — to-morrow and every day. It has a message especially 
for me. It sings : ' There is a bird that has, as yet. gone un- 
noted by any ornithologist. It will seek you out before your 
book is printed. If you succeed in describing it accurately, 
your fame will be above Audubon's. But have a care that it 
smite you not to silence ; for it is a bird of prey, with win- 
try wings keen as a two-edged sword, and man is its spoil 
to eternity.' I want Judith to know that. I may be asleep 
when she comes down. Better put it on paper for her." And 
with failing hands he did so. Then, his poor, spent brain 
hopelessly entangled in a network of pain and vagary, he sank 
back exhausted in his chair. 

Upon regaining consciousness, Judith hastened in search of 
her husband. She found only what had been he, the scarcely 
dry little manuscript held tightly in his helpless hand. 



